Thousands of Tears on the Wall

        

The Great Wall stretched beneath a leaden sky, its stones eroded by centuries of wind and blood. Every brick still seemed to seep with the inaudible prayers of the peoples who had built it to protect themselves from the unknown. And yet, they had failed to keep chaos at bay.

Amano Kagaseo, a silhouette shaped like a walking mausoleum, stood motionless at the top of an abandoned section. His dark trilby, opaque glasses, and Hugo Boss suit seemed to swallow the light. His imposing presence dominated the space, making even the wind hesitate to brush against him.

His journey here had been nothing but a black thread sewn into Tellure’s flesh: deserted villages, hamlets clinging to dying beliefs, and souls undone by his shadow. At every stop, he absorbed fears and memories, ripping away tiny sparks of life from those he encountered. Some, too frail, collapsed to the ground, mouths frozen in prayers meant for no one. Others, kneeling, surrendered their minds, not knowing that by doing so they were feeding the unfathomable.

— Thousands of tears on the wall…

The words rolled on his tongue, clinging to an unknown melody. It was like a sonic crack splitting through his mind. Not an illusion — an invitation.

Every time a fragment of song rose within him, it felt like more than a collective memory. A map was forming — an immaterial path woven into the very vibrations of chaos.

He laid a gloved hand on the frozen stones. A wave of cold coursed through his arm. Behind the roughness of the rock, he heard the beating of a collective heart — a thousand voices murmuring as one.

Ancient battles. Sacrifices. Lips sealed on broken promises.

And then, in a corridor of his mind, other words crept in, parasitic:

“If you survive till two thousand and five,
I hope you’re exceedingly thin…”

A smile without warmth brushed his lips. Pop-culture remnants, torn from some collective memory? Or a thread pulled tight toward him by something — or someone — who knew his flaws?

The verse shifted, rooting itself deeper, pulsing with the same rhythm as the wind threading through the stones:

“Those who came before me,
lived through their vocations,
from the past until completion,
they will turn away no more…”

These words vibrated differently, as if wrenching him, for a moment, out of his inertia. They weren’t from Morriganne, who was too brutal, nor from the Guardian, who was too distant.

No.
Someone else was weaving these waves, guiding his steps.

Amano straightened, rain beginning to hammer his shoulders. The sky split open, releasing a sour, fine downpour. In the puddle at his feet, his reflection was already fragmenting: a thousand faces, a thousand mouths open in silent cries.

— Thousands of tears on the wall… he repeated. This time, his voice was no echo, but a statement.

He inhaled slowly, then turned his face toward the mist in which the wall was fading into infinity.

— Show yourself!

His voice cut through the air like a blade.

— I know you’re here!

Nothing moved. But the almost ironic glint at the corner of his mouth said he knew: that presence — hidden behind those songs — was already pulling the strings.

A sensation wrapped around him, like a breath, a caress. Invisible, elusive — for now.

In the tumult of rain and stone, Amatsu smiled.
The game had begun.
With thousands of tears on the wall.

---

Morriganne, seated in an isolated corner of her underground club, stared at a suspended holographic screen. Streams of data cascaded, casting a bluish glow across her features, sharpening the hardness in her gaze. Around her, the seeping walls, lined with living glyphs, pulsed faintly with the remnants of incantations. Serpentine cables, almost organic, hummed with a deep drone, like a mechanical choir at rest.

She replayed each stage of her battle against Amatsu. Why had she failed?

Her fingers brushed the interface. Drone reports bloomed in translucent spirals. In every projection, Amatsu stood there — a black shadow, indestructible, unflinching — walking through the valley after dispersing her attack.

— Arrogant! Her voice rang, heavy with resentment. She swept the images away with a sharp gesture. — It’s only a matter of time before he betrays himself…

An imperceptible breath filled the room, like an unseen presence. She shivered, not daring to turn.

— You’ve returned.

A silhouette slowly took shape in the deepest darkness. The light flickered. The runes on the walls dimmed, as if frightened.

The Guardian appeared, her outline wavering between tangible and ethereal. Her face shimmered, traits shifting between masculine and feminine before settling into a feminine form, eyes veiled by shadow.

— Morriganne! she finally spoke, her voice calm but laden with ancient weight. Why are you always so quick to twist reality?

Morriganne rose, arms crossed, scarlet aura dripping slowly from her fingertips.

— Quick? I’d call it initiative! Something you and your kind forgot millennia ago!

The Guardian tilted her head, as if inhaling an invisible scent. Her eyes seemed to pierce through Morriganne without truly looking at her.

— We stopped shaping human paths long ago. Observing them is burden enough. Your obsession with Amatsu fractures an already dying balance.

A raspy laugh, sharper than steel, tore from Morriganne.

— Balance? Look at these walls! Look at the world! Your balance is a corpse you keep alive by artifice. Chaos is everywhere — and you dare to lecture me?

The Guardian said nothing. A shiver rippled through her form, like a wave across a lake of mercury. Then she spoke again, each phrase tolling like an organ note:

— Chaos feeds on your bites, Morriganne. By forcing the wave, you fuel it. And you know something else already stokes it.

A faint crease drew between Morriganne’s brows.
— Something else…?

The Guardian didn’t answer directly. She grew vaguer, then reshaped herself. An echo, a whisper, floated behind her — the trace of another presence, elusive yet persistent.

A heartbeat. A liquid silence. The Guardian stepped closer, so near Morriganne thought she felt a chill seep into her bones.

— Persist… but don’t count on us to catch you when you fall.

Without another word, the Guardian receded, merging into the shifting weave of symbols on the walls. She vanished like a thought one tries to erase but whose echo lingers.

Morriganne remained alone, eyes burning toward the holographic screen where Amatsu’s image dissolved into unstable blur. A deep anger began to boil under her skin, but a sly thought, like a serpent, coiled into her temples.

Her fingers slid across the screen, erasing the projections in a flash of icy light.

A feline grin stretched her lips, gleaming with madness.
— Very well… If you fear chaos… let me show you what a reckless woman can do.

---

The harsh light of the interrogation room swallowed every contrast, leaving only a cold, clinical void. Dave, still bound to his chair, stared at an invisible point ahead, lost in thought. The interrogator, standing by a desk cluttered with documents, studied him carefully.

— So, Dave, she began at last, her voice deliberately neutral. You say what he does isn’t intentional. But what will happen when he decides to act?

Dave closed his eyes briefly, as if weighing every word.

— You still don’t understand, do you? He doesn’t act like us. What you call intention, for him, is… instinct. A resonance with his deepest nature, with his needs.

She leaned on the table, arms crossed.

— Instinctive or not, the consequences are real. Look at Kokyo. The dead. The missing. Can you truly call all that just a by-product?

Dave allowed a thin, ironic smile.

— They’re not missing. They’re… transformed. Their souls, their emotions… they merge with him. It’s as if part of them remains inside him. Tiny, yes, but still a part… in some way.

An imperceptible shiver crossed the interrogator’s face, quickly masked.

— And you? Why are you still whole? Why haven’t you been… transformed?

Dave opened his eyes, and for the first time, a gleam of defiance lit them.

— Perhaps because I don’t fear him. Or because he doesn’t fear me.

Silence thickened. She turned slightly, flipping through papers, her gestures betraying mounting unease.

— In your view, who is Amatsu? What mysterious being hides behind that name?

Dave tilted his head, lips curling into a grin. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost a whisper.

— What you perceive, what you struggle to grasp… is only an illusion. The shadow of a truth you’re not ready to face. Amatsu is not a being. He is energy, memory. He existed before everything… he will exist always, even when all else has vanished!

The interrogator hesitated. Her fingertips brushed the table’s edge, seeking support. Then, more firmly:

— A memory, a force, a shadow… perhaps. But you, Dave — do you truly exist?

Dave raised his head slowly. His eyes were both weary and piercing, as though beyond the room he was already gazing past the present.

— Real? He chuckled softly. — Maybe I’m only a tourist, an observer… or a reflection?

She froze, caught between disbelief and irritation. Dave leaned back in his chair, his smile widening.

— What will you do now? he asked.

— I want the truth about Samarkand! she snapped, leaving the room, her stiletto heels striking the floor.

In the corridor, the echo of her own steps gave her a fleeting sense of comfort.

She replayed every piece of his answers in her mind: the words he had spoken, those he had omitted… what he thought he had lived.

She had to understand what bound him to Amatsu.

That wasn’t part of the plan.

In truth, nothing that had happened, was happening, or would happen was in her plan.

And she hated the unexpected.

To uncover the truth, she knew she would have to lie again.

That didn’t trouble her.

The end always justified the means.